


No Light

by sammichgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of past noncon, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam POV, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, body autonomy, flashback to, mentions of Azazel/Lucifer/Meg/Toni Bevell/Gadreel, no actual noncon in story, trauma and PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammichgirl/pseuds/sammichgirl
Summary: What happens to Sam Winchester when something so everyday ordinary - like a tin roof - triggers a panic attack of past traumas?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 145





	No Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story close to my heart, related to #pandorasremains. February is a very hard month for me personally, and this story from Sam's POV has been itching to come out for a good long time now. I figured, what better way to kick February to the curb and do some soul therapy while at it.
> 
> I don't expect this to be everyone's cup of tea, and certainly, it doesn't fix everything for Sam or myself. It is what it is, and I feel better for having put it out there.
> 
> Thanks to [Jen ](https://twitter.com/jenjld71)for the beta and to my dearest [Mags ](https://twitter.com/Magdalena5880) for the encouraging and supportive feedback and beta!

It was hardly even a shack, the hunter’s cabin they found to squat in. It would do, though; any place that offered some refuge right now no matter how crappy, was just fine with both of them.

Dean had immediately headed out on a supply run – beer and whiskey, some groceries to hold them over for a few days – which hopefully meant something better than just greasy burgers and fries, Sam wished. He had opted to stay behind, mainly because he felt like he was coming apart at the seams and wanted some privacy to get his thoughts in order to put himself back together before Dean took notice. That is, if his big brother hadn’t already done so and was just giving Sam some space – he hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when Sam mentioned staying back while offering the flimsy excuse that he’d get a head start on cleaning the weapons.

It had started to rain about twenty minutes after the Impala was out of sight. It’d be at least an hour or more until Dean returned, and Sam felt like not actually doing a damn thing. Plus, they’d never brought the weapons bag inside. So, he wrapped himself up in one of the thick, scratchy Army blankets they had remembered to pull from Baby’s trunk to use as makeshift beds later, and slid into a weathered rocking chair on the decrepit porch. He closed his eyes, weary and thankful for the solitude. He could feel his teeth chattering, the ever present chill in his bones setting in. Maybe he could hold it off this time, maybe he had cocooned into warmth quickly enough to escape the impending anxiety attack.

Sam could hear the rain falling, tinkling along the tin roof and splashing against the canopy of the surrounding trees, lulling him into a light sleep where the world thankfully went soft around the edges as his mind flitted through memories.

He landed on a memory from when he’d been about five years old, his first and only time at a summer camp. It had been one week long, and he’d been under Pastor Jim’s watchful eye. The first three days he’d done nothing but cry and ask where Dean was, refusing to take part in any activities, barely eating and spending most of his time sulking alone. Sam’s outright pout and never-ending tears had the entire camp’s volunteer staff collectively urging Pastor Jim to make an exception for him.

At dinnertime on that third day, Pastor Jim had reluctantly called Sam to the camp office. When Sam stepped inside and saw Dean, his whole demeanor changed and it was like the sun had come out again. Pastor Jim tried to remind Sam that he needed to be a big boy and handle new experiences on his own sometimes, since he was growing up. However, Sam had just kicked his little legs in excitement and kept looking over at Dean, not hearing a word said to him.

Sam had chattered on and on like he hadn’t been an antisocial scamp, and when he and Dean sat side by side in the little dining hall, he’d happily inhaled his macaroni and cheese with cut up hot dogs. The morning of the fourth day Sam had led Dean down to the activities hall, where he let Dean pick the craft they’d work on.

Dean had selected a punched tin lamp shade. They had taken a thin, flat piece of tin, drew designs on it in a thick wax pencil, and then carefully punched holes along the design line. Both Sam and Dean had drawn their own initials and star constellations that Sam could easily pick out from the night sky – the Big and Little Dippers. When it came to punching the holes, Dean had carefully watched Sam use the child-friendly punch tool, laughing every time Sam stuck his tongue out in concentration. They’d had an adult volunteer solder the shade ends together for them, and once they were done Sam had been eager to test it out.

When the day moved into dusk, Sam took their shade and a provided mason jar with a fat, creamy-colored pillar candle in it down to the lakeside. Dean had lit the candle and Sam placed the shade over the mason jar top. His face had lit up seeing the flickering light push through the holes, projecting their designs against the dark tree line. Dean had told him that whenever he felt sad and alone again, just look to the light, to the stars, and he’d know that Dean was doing the same.

That image stayed with Sam all his life. It was one of his favorite memories, one he’d reflect on time and time again in his life. It was never easy for him to keep going, to keep fighting, to see the light, but Dean had told him he would always find it, and Sam believed in Dean if nothing else in this world.

Sam shook his head, clearing out the memory and refocusing on the rain still pinging along the metal roof. He blinked slowly, still feeling drowsy but looking upwards and smiling at the memory of the tin shade. The roof above him had a hole here and there, but not enough to let in any rain, much less any light.

Suddenly, that bothered him. He frowned as his pulse kicked up, and he felt his heart start to race. If there weren’t enough holes, there would not be enough light. The fact that he was outside in the middle of the day meant nothing as he felt the panic set in. He could feel the gloom enveloping him and he’d be suffocated soon. No light also meant no air.

Reason and logic were nowhere to be found as Sam fumbled getting up, tossing the blanket to the ground. He needed to find something sharp and he remembered their weapons bag, save his own Beretta, was still in Baby’s trunk. He could shoot holes, but shouldn't he save his warded, salted, and blessed silver ammo in case of any supernatural attack?

He fidgeted, nervously looking up at the roof, as he felt things closing in around him. He could hear Azazel murmuring, _“Nowhere to run, eh, Sammy boy?”_ followed by Lucifer’s sing-song, _“Me and my shadow, my shadow and me, we’re always together, close as can be!”_

He sprinted inside to the kitchen, opening drawers haphazardly, looking for anything sharp, anything that he could use to let the light in. He recalled the thick black smoke that had been Meg once upon a time choking him, followed by the spell-induced teasing of Toni Bevell that left him feeling nauseated. His wrists tingled and he could again sense the burning frost of angel grace keeping him pinned – Lucifer or Gadreel, the sensation was the same. Every time he had been kidnapped, tied and bound, tortured, possessed – all of them flashed like polaroids in his mind, pictures blooming in color across his memory. Every time his autonomy had been violated ran in a nonstop loop as he searched for a tool.

Screaming in frustration, he sank to the floor, holding his chest as he kept trying to breathe, blindly fishing through a fallen drawer of junk, his eyes squeezed shut in fear. Catching the side of his hand on something sharp, he gasped, pulling his arms and legs back into himself, balling up and rocking on the floor. The light was never going to get in.

He could feel the darkness inch forward towards him as the traumas he’d been through over the course of his life rose up to smooth the inside of the punched holes in the shade of his mind he’d created for safety, pushing the light out, sealing the space without air, choking him. No constellations, no initials to look upon for safety. No Dean.

He was alone. No light, no light.

***************************************************

“Sammy? Hey Sammy! Dude, you better not be sleeping. I know you’re not cleaning the weapons because guess where they still are.” Dean was shouting to be heard, certain his little brother was in a deep sleep since the beautiful rumble of their car as he pulled up outside the door would have alerted most people. Well, Sam needed the rest. Dean had noticed he had been a little off his game this last hunt. A few days off the grid was just what they both needed, he was sure.

Dean had several bags in hand as he balanced a box of pie on one arm, opening the door with his free hand. He looked over to the open area in front of the fireplace, no Sam. He glanced around the cabin, no Sam. Where the hell –

_Sobbing._

**Shit.**

Dean dropped everything as he raced around the large makeshift kitchen island.

**Sam.**

Dropping to his knees, Dean pulled Sam into his arms. Sam was incoherent and went willingly, no fight left in him, and that worried Dean more than anything.

Dean shifted, sitting on the ground, his back against the island as he pulled Sam into the vee of his legs. Sam slumped against Dean’s chest, breathing shallow, tears streaming down his face. Dean held him tight, wrapping his arms around him, running a hand through shaggy chestnut locks, shushing Sam with nonsense words. He didn’t really speak, knowing right now he couldn’t get through to Sam with anything but touch, and syncing up their own heartbeats.

It was a tried and true practice. Just laying close together, where their heartbeats could hear and feel each other – well, it wasn’t really science per se, but it was the Winchester way.

After about an hour, Sam had fallen quiet, his breathing back to normal, salty tear tracks dried on his cheeks. Dean’s indication that Sam was out of the fugue episode was feeling a hand make its way to his own heart and resting there. Dean licked his lips and kept his voice low and calm.

“Y’ok?”

“…”

“Sammy, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Dark, so dark, no light or air. Holes all closed up.” Dean barely heard Sam’s whisper.

“Holes?”

“The tin holes. Th-the craft from camp? Holes all gone.”

Sam sounded so fatigued, so worn and defeated. Any other hunter would have wondered if something evil had happened while Dean was gone, just what had Sam fought to stay alive. Except Dean knew.

“Really bad one this time, huh Sammy?”

“Yeah.”

“S’ok, Sammy. Let’s talk about the holes.”

They spoke in simple sentences, muted tones, Dean trying to keep Sam calm as he got all the information needed to see what had triggered Sam’s attack this time.

When Sam felt safe enough to move around a bit on his own, Dean gave him simple instructions.

“Sammy, take all of our blankets and pile them in front of the fireplace, make us a big cozy bed, ok?”

“Ok, Dean.”

While Sam did that, Dean went outside to the small lean-to off of the cabin, hoping the wood there was still dry. Most of it was, so he brought in a few armfuls, stacking it in the grate to get a good fire going.

“Sam, can you check the bags by the door? I bought some stuff to make sandwiches. Can you make us a few for dinner?’

“Sure, Dean.”

Dean watched Sam gather the bags and move to the kitchen to unpack everything. The eggs and pie were probably smushed since he’d dropped them so hastily, but everything else should be salvageable. He waited until he saw the tiny flicker of a smile on Sam’s face when he found the small pre-bagged salad before Dean went back to the car to finally bring in the weapons bag.

He set about salting the doors and windows, drawing protective sigils, warding the small cabin. Sam watched him quietly, mumbling a soft, “thanks, Dean” when he was finished.

After eating their sandwiches and scraping bites of cherry pie from the bakery box, they settled in to spoon by the fire. Dean let Sam snuggle up against him, singing off-key the silly soft 70s rock songs Sam oddly loved, knowing they’d give him peace to sleep.

Any other time in a place like this they’d have tired each other out releasing certain tensions in deliciously dirty, wicked, sexy ways, but Sam was definitely not up for anything resembling that, and Dean wasn’t about to push it. Instead he traced protective spells into Sam’s bare arms and the back of his neck, making sure to not disturb his clothes.

***************************************************

When Sam woke up the next morning, the fire was still giving off some residual heat and he could smell fresh coffee and frying bacon in the air. Dean wasn’t in the blanket pile with him, and Sam could hear a metallic striking coming from outside. Throwing off the blankets, he got up to see what Dean was doing.

As Sam stepped through the doorway to the porch, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

His big brother was up on a rickety ladder, stabbing holes into the tin roof over the porch. _Stabbing holes._ Dean was actually using one of the angel blades in the trunk to puncture the roof and it oddly looked like –

Well.

It looked a lot like the Big and Little dipper constellations, accentuated by their initials.

Sam watched in open mouthed amazement as Dean finished up. “How did you?”

“Well, we talked a lot yesterday, Sam. Do you remember any of it?” Dean watched his brother carefully, betting he’d made the right decision.

“I remember yeah, most of it anyway. I didn’t think you did though –the exact formation of the holes, I mean.”

“Well, I do. I did. Sam, that was a pretty big moment for us, don’t’cha think?”

“Yesterday? I guess so, Dean, yeah.”

“No Sammy. That time at camp. We never did get you to another camp, but that memory, it’s how old? And you’ve kept it all these years. You aren’t ever alone little brother, remember, I told you.”

“Look to the stars.” Sam smiled. He’d always looked up, trying to find Dean when he felt alone, certain that Dean was out there, doing the same, each trying to find their way back to each other, no matter what had gone down between them. “Dean, you’re my light.”

“And you’re my tin punched roof.”

“I’m your what?” Sam laughed, joy bubbling inside him.

“Aw, you know what I mean, bitch. We’re better together, is what I’m saying.”

Sam had been looking up at the roof as Dean spoke, and noticed a new punching. Between the two sets of initials, a heart had been punched in.

“That’s new.” He smiled at Dean, watching his adorable face flush.

“Yeah, uh, well…” Dean’s ears also turned pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck, as he always did when he was nervous about chick flick moments or suddenly shy.

“I love you too, jerk.”


End file.
